


Batter Instead What Will Not Break

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 16:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly doesn't revel in anger the way Bahorel does, but some days it's just overwhelming. Bahorel has a way of helping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Batter Instead What Will Not Break

Unlike Bahorel, Feuilly does not enjoy rage. He doesn’t long for the moment some asshole gets in his space or does something to piss him off. He’s lived long enough in other people’s places and struggled enough to get his own way that he’s learned to let things slide off him like water off a duck’s back. If he didn’t, he’d have been in jail long ago what with the stigma of homelessness and such. Despite the fist fights he manages to get in monthly and the feral grin that sometimes crosses his features, Feuilly is not an outwardly angry person.

That being said, Feuilly _does_ get mad. He rages at the newspaper whenever he has the time to read it. He gets frustrated over the management of workers and the conditions of schools and the treatment of minorities. He gets mad at the way customers treat his female or gender variant coworkers. When he gets angry like that, he usually comes home and sits with his legs over the torn up arm of the couch and rants to Bahorel, hands flying animatedly through the air, until Bahorel yanks him into a proper sitting position and starts massaging his shoulders or pulls him into the kitchen and shoves food in front of him. Once he’s done ranting it all out, he’s fine and forgets it until the next time, and he and Bahorel play Mario Kart until two AM because they can.

But sometimes, Feuilly walks into their apartment straight-backed and stony-faced, eyes hard, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he breathes through his nose to keep a grimace off his face or a scream back, and that’s when Bahorel becomes the best friend he could ever have. His backpack is taken from his stiff grip and dropped onto the coffee table, and his jacket is removed by large, gentle hands. Bahorel takes Feuilly’s hand and pulls him into the spare bedroom that has become a home exercise room, leads him to the centre of the floor and stands in front of him, arms out. Bahorel’s eyes are somewhere between challenging and comforting when he looks at Feuilly and says, “Go ahead.”

And Feuilly snaps into motion, muscles coiling and bunching, fists flying, face contorted in rage. The sound of skin hitting skin and rough, uneven breathing fills the room. Feuilly’s fists pummel into Bahorel, sticking mostly to his torso and arms, but sometimes a punch lands on his jaw or his cheek, whipping his head back with a soft grunt, but he doesn’t move. And Feuilly hits, keeps on hitting, punches and pushes and jabs and strikes, until his breath is coming in harsh, shaking gasps, until he’s clutching the shoulders of Bahorel’s shirt in aching hands, his arms limp, his forehead pressed against Bahorel’s sternum, shuddering.

And Bahorel ignores his sore jaw, ignores the imprints of fists that he can feel across his chest as he moves, ignores his pain in favour of running his fingers through Feuilly’s hair before coaxing him to stand and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Feuilly sighs and tucks his face against Bahorel’s neck, and Bahorel hooks his arms under Feuilly’s to hold onto his shoulders, and they stand that way for a while until Bahorel gets bored or Feuilly starts to fall asleep.

Bahorel presses the other man back to hold his own weight, and Feuilly smiles tiredly. “Thanks. Sorry about the jaw.”

Bahorel shrugs and smiles and pokes his already bruising cheek with a finger. “Nah, it’s okay. Pre-emptive punch for something I’ll probably do later. Or something.”

They walk together back out into the living room, shoulders brushing. Bahorel picks some mindless movie to watch and flings himself down on the couch, saying nothing when Feuilly curls up beside him with his head in his lap. Fingers card through hair and there’s a hum of contentment and an answering hum of acknowledgement. The film starts up and Feuilly scoffs a sleepy laugh.

“Really? You just put on Labyrinth so you can stare at David Bowie’s package while I’m asleep.”

Bahorel flicks his ear, then immediately soothes the pain with gentle fingers. “Fuck you, David Bowie’s package is glorious.”

“Hmm,” Feuilly answers, but with his anger gone and his energy spent, he’s drifting into a dozing fog made thick by the fingers combing through his hair and the distant sounds of the movie playing.

Bahorel waits until Feuilly’s breathing has evened out and his body has gone completely limp to rub a hand across his bruised jaw and then over his eyes before pressing two fingers gently against his solar plexus in something like reverence.

 


End file.
